Body Language
by ripsofftricks
Summary: "Now, I don't speak Spanish, Japanese or French." England tries to win a bet, hauling along France, Spain and Japan. Meanwhile, an American tags along for the ride, unsure of what he's to do with his newfound feelings.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: It certainly feels rather nice to have nothing pressing to do so that I can come back to writing for a bit. That being said, seems to not like my symbols so there's going to be a lot of ugly dividers because that's what they allow, unfortunately.**

**This story is inspired or rather, Jesse McCartney's song Body Language refused to get the hell out of my head and I had to write this. On hindsight, this story has nothing to do with the song. I just liked the idea of new languages. This was the working title and I just can't be arsed to think of a new name.  
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><p><span>Body Language: Part One<span>

America smiled, propping his head up with his hand.

The day was a slow one, nations were idling about, socialising before the meeting. The sun was filtering through the tinted glass to sparkle faintly on the floor and there remained a half hour before the conference began.

America's gaze fell on very special nation with whom he shared a very special relationship. Said nation was already bustling about before anything had really happened, hands busy with papers and binders.

His eyes caught green and America grinned, unable to stop himself from expressing his poorly-concealed joy. Green eyes narrowed suspiciously before a red flush crept up that slender neck. England nodded in greeting, a small curve to his lips.

America sighed, stomach twisting, biting his lip hard in a bid to stop his ever-widening grin.

* * *

><p>The meeting went on as it always did, with Germany assuming control and the countries mostly succeeding in keeping their annoyance or amusement tamped down at England and France's increasingly frequent altercations.<p>

These days, America didn't really pay attention to what was being said over the table, preferring instead to gaze dopily at England who kept shooting him furtive glances, irritated looks that all but shouted, "What the fuck are you trying at?"

Those were his favourites.

"Angleterre, calm down. I'm not saying anything against anyone, _cheri_," France placated, his eyebrows arched mockingly.

England's eyes glittered menacingly, hand slamming down onto the polished oak table jolting anybody who hasn't already been awoken by yet another argument. His nose wrinkled in disgust and revulsion.

"Don't call me '_cheri'_," England all but spat out the last word.

"Why ever not? It's French!" France replied simply, like that was all the justification that the world had ever needed.

England sneered, "Don't contaminate my language with your revolting one. Nobody needs more nonsense from you going around and infecting everybody with your inferiority."

At this, France actually began to look a little affronted. Chuckling forcedly, "At least I can speak English, cheri. You wouldn't last a day speaking a foreign one," France said with a little more malice, his words dripping viscously like honey.

America perked up, this was getting interesting.

"Bring it," England spat, eyes challenging, "I can speak all your bloody languages."

France lit up with interest, resentment so easily forgotten that it seemed but wind sweeping through a plain. His eyes swept across the room before he laughed and announced, "Of course, Angleterre! You're such a linguist. Surely, French, Spanish and... Japanese won't be a problem for you!"

England's face was incredulous and he looked to be about a second away from smashing France's excited face into the wall. Trust the French to turn a mere argument into a bet that England would have to back down from.

Piping in, America added, "Three languages? Come on, the basics should be hard enough for the old man!"

England turned and shot America a withering glare, which he returned with a winning smile.

"Fine then, three months to learn how to hold a conversation in those languages. Prove to me that you aren't just a man riding on your empirical conquests to establish your language supremacy," France threw a significant glance at America and England followed his gaze before dropping his head and glowering.

England hesitated and France tilted his head, daring the Englishman to back down.

"I accept."

* * *

><p>"Won't you help me? I mean, who else is there to learn from but the best?"<p>

England's voice was low and suave, persuading the smaller Japanese nation into agreeing. He held his gaze steadily, smiling in genuine camaraderie. Their alliance may have ended decades before but there wasn't a reason to hate the Japanese nation with his conservative and demure character.

Japan didn't dare meet his insistent gaze, head bowed, he still looked like a deer caught in the headlights, shocked and uncertain.

"Japan?" England asked, starting to sound concerned, "I do hope you're planning to answer me soon?"

If it was possible, Japan looked more torn before his expression was expertly schooled into diplomatic blankness.

"...of course, England-san."

""All right then," England smirked and patted Japan on the back, grinning with unadulterated glee, "I'll pay you a visit on Saturday?"

Japan nodded. This wasn't too bad. This could be an opportunity to rebuild their former strong relations. It really has been too long since he had a guest back at home and he never had a nation over merely to pick up Japanese.

"Lovely," England practically purred the last word, grinning triumphantly at Japan, "I will be able to win this thing, won't I?"

Japan nodded in affirmation. They had three months and if England was hard at work on it, there was absolutely no reason why he would not be able to pick up conversational Japanese. None at all.

* * *

><p>Spain's face darkened, "Tell me why should I help you?"<p>

He fiddled with his pen, frowning uneasily up at England, mouth in a thin line. Displeasure was evident on his face but Spain had a smug look about him, happy in the knowledge that this time, he had a bargaining chip.

"I've been thinking," England started slowly, voice solemn, "That maybe we could come to a consensus. You'll do me a favour and I'll do you one in turn..."

Two pairs of eyes with varying shades of green pierced each other with a false air of nonchalance and disinterest. Spain rolled his eyes, "And what can you offer that will convince me to help you to beat my very best friend?"

"I may be open to relaxing my stance on my claim of the waters around Gibraltar if you do a good job teaching me," England was curt and professional, squaring his shoulders, "But, I remain in my position that the issue of sovereignty is not my decision to make and they must choose between the two of us for themselves."

Spain bit his lip, the offer was tempting, he wanted those territorial waters to be his own and England was practically selling it to him for a few Spanish lessons. Nevertheless, it wasn't sufficient to have England cede something that was already his own.

"I need something better than that, Inglaterra," Spain curled his 'r's for extra effect.

England scowled, back straightening and shoulders squared.

"If you do not wish to accept my offer, I am sure one of your colonies would be jumping at the chance to gain a deal."

Spain narrowed his eyes.

"Mexico, Chile, Argentina, Cuba... You do have many colonies do you not, Spain?" England asked, voice tart, shooting the nation a sharp warning.

"Fine," Spain bit out, forcing himself to nod curtly, "My place." The waters would be his, this is worth it. It will be worth it. This had better be worth it.

"Brilliant!" England smiled, baring his teeth menacingly.

Oh lord, those better be some beautiful waters.

* * *

><p>England found France lounging in some empty room, smoking a cigarette furtively in the corner in a pathetic attempt not to set off the smoke detectors. He tapped the cigarette with his finger, ash fluttering to the floor. Now to think of it, England was gasping for a fag, maybe he could have a quick— no, he had matters to attend to and he best get this out of the way first.<p>

"Oi!"

France spun around smoothly, a knowing smirk already taking its place on his inscrutable countenance. England couldn't tell if he was smug or just constipated. Probably the latter, it couldn't be easy digesting snails after all.

"Oui?"

"You know what I'm here for so let's cut to the chase. Will you teach me French?"

France took another drag of his cigarette with a grin, blowing out the smoke in rings that vaguely curved to look like hearts. That was so stereotypically him that England didn't know whether to be annoyed or to pull out a teacup with his little finger raised.

"Those words are music to my ears. I didn't think I'd ever hear you ask to learn the language of love."

"It's French, not quantum mechanics."

"Mm. Quantum mechanics must be easier, non?"

"Don't call yourself tall."

"It's not drab and dry like your English can frequently be," Francis sighed, expression going nostalgic and proud, "French is like the ocean that you long for, Angleterre. She is volatile and dangerous, a cruel mistress. Yet, also full of that passionate spirit that it is impossible to resist falling in love with her."

England's lips curled, "What are you, a billboard?"

France sighed exasperatedly at England, "Why you insist on being so plain and boring, I will never understand."

"Will you teach me or won't you?"

England sniffed, arms crossing in disdain. This is so stupid, learning three other languages when English is clearly the lingua franca of the world. It isn't like it was England's fault that he and his brothers managed to conquer a quarter of the world and their language caught on so quickly and it just so happens that the only global superpower could speak it… How could all of that be his bloody problem?

"Give me a reason why I should."

England scoffed, lashes fluttering mockingly, "It's a chance for you to get me to speak that most darling tongue of yours. Isn't that reason enough?"

"Oh, you wound me so," France clutched at his heart in mock despair but nodding, "I'll teach you French! In a few weeks you'll be rattling off the most romantic French sonnets with seasoned ease. The world would never know what hit them!"

Laughing in good humour, England couldn't resist adding, "Because they'd have absolutely no idea what the hell I'm saying."

France winked lasciviously, "I like you like that. Would it hurt for you to be so pleasant always?" His fingers curled under England's chin, tilting that uncharacteristically smiling face up.

"I sold my cheerfulness for rum," England retorted with his usual deadpan wit.

"Ah, Angleterre… I guess I'll see you tomorrow for lunch."

England nodded and started to leave, then as an after-thought, turned back to the Frenchman still huddled in the corner, smoking surreptitiously.

"Fuck the detectors."

France looked on questioningly.

"The detectors don't work. I started a fire in the cafeteria once and the blasted things didn't even register the flames licking at them."

"So, that was you?"

"In my opinion, the oven was already faulty before I put my Sunday roast in."

* * *

><p>America stared at his iPhone, finger barely tracing the greasy area around the call button. He had everything planned out: he would call England, arrange for a get-together of some sort. England would agree and he would bid the nation a goodnight before hanging up. It was succinct and to the point, which didn't explain the queasy feeling in his stomach.<p>

Wasn't he supposed to be the brave one? He was the one all reckless and charging blindly in a fit of righteousness. Where had that version of America gone? It seemed that when it came to things that really mattered, America was at a total loss.

America sighed dejectedly, slumping onto his sofa and closing his eyes.

He'll deal with this later. When his heart wasn't beating as fast and when his mouth didn't feel as dry.

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><p>"Hello?"<p>

There was silence on the other line and England was starting to think that it was those prank-calling children. No matter how many times he changed his number, those imbecilic punks would always find a way to track him down again. England was starting to suspect his brothers for that, nobody else would be so bored stiff as to hand out his phone number like sweets.

"If you're one of those goons, why don't you fuck off and—

"No! England, it's America."

England's brows furrowed, "Is this concerning those strange looks you've been shooting me? If it is, the explanation had better be good."

"No! Well, it partly is…" America trailed off, voice sounding tinny over the speakers, "Anyway, I was wondering if you'd want to have lunch tomorrow?"

"Whatever for?"

"For?" America reiterated, sounding concerned and completely unlike himself, "My boss—yeah, my boss have asked me to clear things out on a few points of yesterday's meeting that I'm not sure of. I thought you could help me?"

"Are you sure you'd want my help? After all, from what I gathered, I'm not as valued as I once was," England muttered spitefully into the receiver, before he composed himself, "Not that I mind, I understand if you're humouring me but there is no need."

"It's just going over a few documents!"

"America," England's voice was tired and warning. He really didn't want any more of this. England's eyes looked at his bed forlornly, illuminated by a table lamp. It's already a little past midnight and he did have a long day ahead tomorrow.

"I'm not them you know," America said, voice quiet, ""What they call alliances, I call relationships. You're the closest person to me in the world. Don't shut me out."

"I'll never," England replied softly, breathing deeper, before forcing a smile on his face, even if America wasn't there to see it, "How's this? I have lunch with France tomorrow but I'm free for dinner?"

Likewise, England could hear the smile in America's voice, "Dinner, then! I'll fly over."

There was a moment's pause.

"Goodnight, America."

"... 'Night England, sweet dreams."

The dial tone rang empty in the silence of the room.

* * *

><p>"Is this really necessary?" England asked while mock-glaring at France from across the table.<p>

Speaking of the table, an array of colourful dishes obscured the poor thing from view and such hospitality was very strange, considering that it was France who was hosting. The spread caught the attention of a few curious people peering from the side and there were a few murmurs of astonishment as the waiter continued to unload dishes on the small table.

England was unaware that France had invited an elephant to for lunch and he made his views quite clear.

"I just thought that with the food your country churns out, you might want to be treated to an actual meal today," France replied, wrinkling his nose delicately, "The thing you Brits call bread... It's like eating cotton wool."

"I doubt your baguettes are much better, arrogant and expensive loaves of bread."

"Quality over quantity," France said cheerfully, "Very much like French, non?"

England could barely resist throwing his salad at him.

It's been over an hour and the restaurant is now almost empty except for the both of them seated near the window, still chatting rapidly and from the looks of it, things were getting more heated. England for one, was still muttering murderously beneath his breath while the Frenchman flailed about hysterically.

The waiter was looking nervously in their direction, from the raised voices and tense atmosphere, it was easy to see that if that dinner knife was slightly sharper, it would already have been lodged in one of their throats.

"Je ne comprends pas. No, no, that's hardly right. You're not curling your words correctly!" (I do not understand)

"Are you sure this is conversational? I swear, those Rs in almost every single bleeding word is going to kill me," England said between gritted teeth.

Those blasted words with those infernal twists to them! It wasn't natural; a man's tongue wasn't brought up to speak like that. At the very least, it was a small comfort that England could tell that France wasn't teaching him some secret dirty language of the perverts. Contrary to popular (see: France) beliefs, he wasn't completely inattentive to other languages.

"Your tongue," declared France, "is a dead animal."

"Well," England hissed, incensed, "Excusez mon français. Je ne parle pas français." (Excuse my French. I do not speak French.)

"You are excused," France muttered, cringing slightly, "At least you got one right."

England really wished he knew how to decently say 'fuck you' in French, but being a resourceful man, he settled with flipping the nation off as he stormed out the door.

* * *

><p>America looked into his luggage. His room hasn't been tidied up much and worn clothing littered the carpeted floor. The clothes that had managed to find themselves on hangars were all stuffed haphazardly into his case. Now, America was pondering if he should have some new clothes bought. His wrinkled clothing was not suitable for formal wear and England would have deemed it unthinkable.<p>

This was exactly why America hated going to upper class restaurants, not only did they come off as standoffish, they also came with a dress-code.

One of the spare rooms in the American embassy in London was left to him to do whatever he wished, with express permission from the president of course. But there really isn't anything to do in the dark empty room except to think of what to wear. Which was really the biggest headache America, or anyone, could dredge up.

If there was anything that the American had learnt in his years spent with England, was that the nation loved formalities and posh places where they gave you napkins to put on your laps and the like.

In any case, America was hoping that there would be less discussion about global affairs and more of a casual conversation. He didn't think there was anything more persuasive than taking England out for one of the finest restaurants in the perpetually wet city.

A blouse and some slacks should be appropriate enough… America jumped as his phone started vibrating in his back pocket. He pulled it out with practiced ease.

"Hello, America?"

"What's up?"

"This is embarrassing but I was wondering if instead of going out for dinner, we could just stay in?" England's voice sounded hesitant from the other side.

"I'm not taking you to McDonalds tonight! I swear!"

England laughed quietly, stomach twisting, "Maybe not but after my French lessons today, I really don't want to leave my front door again."

America felt a little disappointed, throwing his clothes back in luggage case glumly. He couldn't really force England out of his door could he? Neither did he want to. What was the point if the English nation was just going to stare at him sullenly over the table?

"Okay then, but, could we order takeout? Not that your food is bad or anything," America rushed to amend.

America could hear England mutter something intelligible, probably taking to heart the unintentional jibe to his cooking. It's just so weird, stepping around England so carefully. It was like he was constantly tongue-tied and anything he said wasn't funny or witty enough. Thankfully, the phone call ended quickly enough before America started to have a panic attack.

"Thank you, America. I really appreciate this. See you soon."

England hung up before America even had the chance to think what to say.

* * *

><p>America picked at his shirt. It was one of the cleaner ones he could find around his room and it looked pretty neutral. Grey was the world's most boring colour and might as well be the least offensive. America was also starting to think that he may be reading too much into things.<p>

"Takeout isn't here yet," England said, the moment America stepped through the door.

"I don't think the delivery guy is going to expect wading through your gigantic garden before getting to your front door."

England rolled his eyes, taking America's coat before he flung it over some furniture and hanging it up neatly on the coat rack near the door.

"Somebody's got to admire the roses," he replied serenely, heading off to his sitting room with a nervous America trailing behind him.

"You forgot?" England demanded, sharp green eyes piercing America, daring him to make one false move, "You mean to say that you sat through seven hours on a plane, crossed dozens of time zones to come here and you forgot to bring your papers?"

On hindsight, it was a pretty weak bluff.

"I could have them fax it over?" America asked, his shoulders pressing painfully into the sofa behind him, hoping that it was the right answer.

"America."

There was it again. His name said in four syllables and seven letters that trembled with England's intolerance for any bullshit.

"It's nothing! It slipped my mind, s'all."

England got up from his arm chair and gently set his tea cup down on the antique coffee table in front of him. Turbulent emotions raging against his stoic expression, his lips pressed in a thin line. Once his precious tea was put away safely, England turned to face America.

There was only one way to describe the way he walked: predatory. Not in the good way either, he looked furious, annoyed and impatient all rolled into one. America was the prey and already, he could see a vicious slap coming for him in the near future.

In a second, England was close enough that America could count his lashes. At least he could if he wasn't so threatened by those glaring green eyes just inches from his face. If this was a new intimidation technique, it was very effective.

"England?" America squeaked, increasing his efforts to burrow into the sofa and hide away.

"Tell me the truth, America," England said, hand on his shoulder, nails digging in brutally, voice dripping like honey, "Liars will have their trousers hung up on gallows and burnt, with your arse in it or not."

"I—

"The truth," England reiterated harshly.

"I don't know how you'll take to that," America answered honestly, stomach plummeting. Contingency plan upon contingency plan… gone. England saw through everything like glass and at that line, England's eyes softened.

"I don't need protecting."

"Everyone needs protecting."

"I'm your equal," England reminded him, sounding just a little bitter, "I don't need nor want anything but your faith."

America stayed silent.

"You've been acting very strangely around me," England stated coldly, "You've been very reserved, distant and you don't even speak your mind anymore. I don't know what's in that thick skull of yours but please, please, just tell me."

"I want to spend more time with you, don't tell me that I'm wrong."

"There's something more, isn't there." England whispered, it wasn't so much a question as a statement, "There must be a reason why you're making up excuses to visit me. It's long been established that my place is always welcome to you, you have but to ask."

England's voice was warm and pleading, he managed to convey in a few sentences, security, care and trust. It was frightening. The hold the other nation had over America was upsetting and he found himself reluctantly smitten with him. He fell hard and he fell fast.

"America, I—

The doorbell rang and America stood up awkwardly, England backing away with a sudden shock.

"I'll just go get that then," America answered.

He did not turn to look at England who was hovering self-consciously at the side, a wounded look about him. Shoulders slumped and breathing heavily, England bit his lip till he tasted copper.

* * *

><p>England kicked off his shoes and padded noisily into Japan's home, bare feet plodding heavily on tatami mats. Japan hasn't said much throughout the entire journey to his home but that might be because England was busy catching forty winks before they got to their destination.<p>

"Are you okay?" Japan asked, hesitant as England sat down rigidly, back against the wall and his eyes tightly shut.

"Pardon me for being frank," England said, opening one eye slightly, "But I'm bloody exhausted."

"You did not rest during your flight here?" Japan asked politely. He looked out at the sun, just beginning to light up the skies. He was going to take a wild guess and assume that England was not going to appreciate having to sit through a four hour long tea ceremony. Nobody could fault him for not trying to be traditional now.

"No, I was far too occupied worrying about America," England replied bluntly. He always was rather forthright when speaking to the Japanese country.

Japan nodded knowingly to himself. Of course, he thought, who else would have the ability to keep England tired but awake?

"I may be able to help?" Japan offered. He wasn't just being kind though, he had long been interested in observing how his staunchest ally and oldest friend would finally realise their feelings for each other. Still, it wasn't his place to interfere unless allowed to.

"I don't know what's wrong with him," England said despondently, eyes staring blankly in front of him, "I fear that he may really not care. Not for me. Not any more."

England sounded so small and broken that Japan was really starting to worry. Maybe he should ring France and let the Frenchman give a screaming pep talk to the apathetic nation on his floor right now. Even if it didn't work, Japan would rather England be red-faced and rambling than pallid and quiet.

Everyone who was anyone knew the one chink in England's amour. It wasn't that difficult to spot. If he ever thought that America no longer held any affection for him, which thankfully was near to never, he would falter.

Their relationship was the strongest in the world but it was plagued with insecurities and old scars. The media speculation did nothing but to sour the bond and make each of them more uncertain of the other's loyalty.

The latter was especially in particular of England.

"I think," England continued, voice steadying, "that I should depart from the global stage. I'm long past my prime and maybe it's time that I retire. The Nordics aren't saddled with many problems and they're… they're happy."

"You won't drop away from international politics," Japan said confidently, "I don't think you could. Your conscience will never permit you to do anything less than what you deem right."

England's lips curved into a small sad smile, "You're too kind."

Japan nodded, "I am."

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><p>Japan smiled with pride, taking another sip of his tea. It was nearly afternoon and they were already progressing really well in terms of England's proficiency in Japanese. England was grinning proudly across from him, trying out new words and he seemed to like how they sounded.<p>

"Ii tenki desu. It's a beautiful day out," England announced, satisfied at having learned a new phrase, "At least I'm not completely rubbish at this. Monday is a long way away."

"You seem very relaxed," Japan commented, a rare grin mirroring that of the Englishman sitting opposite him.

"Not a single English word in sight," England said, shrugging, "I should feel cut off but now, I don't really give two hoots about the world."

Japan nodded understandingly before picking up his notebook, "Let's move on, shall we?"

* * *

><p>"I really must thank you for your hospitality. It's been brilliant and you won't mind flying over the week before the bet ends?"<p>

Japan shook his head, "I've been meaning to look at your garden. America keeps talking about how he wants to steal a few of your roses and plant them."

"If you have seen the state of his yard, I would assume you agree that the boy has no business messing about with my flowers," England scoffed, but smiling, "I really am grateful for the help, Japan. You've never been anything less than conscientious."

England glanced at his watch, "Well, my flight's taking off soon."

Japan nodded, watching as the Englishman turned and went off. There was something weighing on his stomach, almost like he's forgetting something. Japan's hand brushed over his satchel, fingers curling against the leather and suddenly he remembered with wide-eyed shock. Rummaging through his bag, he pulled out a brown paper package that arrived in the post just that morning.

"England!" Japan called, running up to the country that was about to cross the customs. "America sent that to you," Japan thrust the parcel in England's hands, ignoring his bewilderment.

At England's upset expression, Japan had to stop himself from revealing too much. This was not his place! This was not his place. America had to make the move now; England would not dare assume anything this time around. Japan just had to wait for the American to finally 'get over his big head' as England would so fondly put it.

"This better not be drugs," England muttered darkly and with a nod, turned and passed through immigration.

* * *

><p><strong>Right. The second part will be up quite soon. I hope the dividers weren't very annoying (they are to put up). But without them the story wouldn't make any sense. <strong>

**I haven't written in a long while and I do apologise if anything is off.**

**EDIT: Some edits because the French was off. I apologise so much. It's righted now and tell me if you spot any more mistakes. Thank you! (13/02/12)  
><strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: I know I did say that this would be up soon, but I sort of forgot about it after I went overseas for a bit of a trip. It's okay though, it's here now. And I'm terribly sorry but this fic isn't beta-ed either and with me being well, me, you'll be able to spot through many lapses in tense. That's my fault. But read on if you will.**

* * *

><p><span>Body Language: Part Two<span>

England's fingers brushed over the crisp brown package, toying with the string wistfully. He loved packages like this, simple and yet their beauty is so understated. He had a long flight ahead and this time, England wasn't about to let his worries get the better of him, half a day trapped in a cabin, flying miles high in the air, there wasn't anything he could do even if he brooded about it.

The flight attendant came over and offered him tea with a lipstick-smeared smile. He accepted it graciously and winced when he recognised it to be Lipton. The brand seemed to be the default choice of tea on airlines these days. At least, England reckoned, he'd been through worse.

They were above the clouds and the sun was glaring in before England slid the shutter down. Finally giving in to his curiosity, he tugged at the string and gently peeled the paper apart.

* * *

><p>France idled about in his chair, lazily sipping his wine, pausing sometimes to correct England's pronunciation. He was being surprisingly quiet for the entire evening and not his usual flamboyant self. England had even noticed that he had lost a bit of his self-satisfied strut.<p>

"L'amore," England said again, tired of repeating the one word. His emotions already in a jumble and his nerves frayed ever since he left the sanctuary of Japan.

"Say it with feeling," France repeated, "It means love, England. Why won't you say it with feeling? Say it like it means something and maybe you'll get it right."

"L'amore," England said, this time managing to make it sound flatter than the last.

France closed his eyes and sighed, setting his wine glass on the table. England felt a twinge of guilt deep in his chest. This wasn't progressing very well for either of them and this bet is proving harder and harder to win. England didn't really know what he was trying to prove with this, but he continued on, reluctant to give up halfway.

"England," France said, breaking the depressing silence, "I think that it may be time for an intervention."

England stayed silent, he was far too tired to question. All he wanted right now was to take the Chunnel back home and collapse on his bed until his prime minister came knocking and find his dead body. Here's to hoping that somebody would mourn for him.

"America is in love."

England raised his gaze sluggishly up to meet France's, "I guessed as much."

"You're in love with him." Again, this wasn't a question either.

France continued, looking as if horrifyingly bored at the proceedings, "This would be so much easier to resolve if the both of you would take a bat and hit yourselves in the head with it." France paused and reached for his wine before carrying on, "I'm here to tell you that he loves you."

England scoffed.

England's eyes were already half-shut and he was wondering why the restaurant suddenly became so noisy. He could hear the clank of plates and tinkle of utensils, the chatter of people enveloping them. It was like the entire city of Paris was squeezing into this restaurant. They've been at it for an hour or so and all England wanted to do was to leave again, he didn't like where this conversation was headed and he wanted to run away.

"If he really loves me, he should tell me," England confessed, crossing his arms defensively.

"Angleterre… this is Amerique, you should understand that—"

"I should understand nothing," England retorted fiercely, eyes flashing indignantly.

France looked taken aback, surprised at being cut off so vehemently.

"It's his move now," England clarified, voice low and resigned, "I will not put myself out there again, it's his move to make and his alone. I will not… I cannot."

England caught France's sympathetic gaze before avoiding his eyes, his stomach was twisting violently and he feared that he would not be able to keep his food down. He was right though, England reasoned, it was America's decision and if he was being genuine about him then there was no plausible excuse why England should be the one (again) to make the first move. England was sick and tired of the hot and cold relationship that America's government was giving off and it definitely wasn't doing wonders for England's sense of security.

"You always look at him as if he hung the moon," France whispered, lips pursing sadly, "And he looks at you like you spun the stars."

England grabbed his coat and patted France's back, "Now if only he would tell me that."

* * *

><p>France pressed a tape into America's hand as he left the restaurant. The stalking blonde's eyes widened as his fingers closed around the foreign object. France had enough on his plate to worry about without his allies' relationship being piled on beside it.<p>

"Listen to it, and do what you have to do," France said threateningly, frowning in contempt at the still confused nation dawdling in front of him.

"He has the entirety of Europe behind him," France hissed and America stepped back, "We may hate him but we will not stand for one of ours being bullied. Hurt him and you will find yourself cut off from the whole union," France breathed, "Hurt him… and I will— I will hunt you down and shoot your balls myself."

America nodded dumbly.

* * *

><p>It was really quite beautiful, what America had given him. The leather was soft and firm below his hand and the cream pages crisp. England's fingers ran over the cover again. He had found himself doing that many times a day that it all seemed rather ridiculous.<p>

The beauty of the notebook is the many pages you can fill with drawings and thoughts and poems and names. Some names didn't require words.

On every page, the flag of America was printed before the margin. It was like a little irritating reminder that America was there. But somehow, England couldn't bring himself to leave it behind at home when he was out in the streets.

The silly little git had also gone and ruined a perfectly good fountain pen by embossing his bloody name at the side. The thought had actually brought a smile to England's face. He just couldn't be rid of the bloody American, could he?

He wasn't as annoyed as he thought he would be.

* * *

><p>"Stop walking around me, I'm not going to fucking sink any more of your ships."<p>

Spain gave him a dirty look of distrust.

Romano was in the room with them, slouching on one armchair while muttering phrases in Spanish to Spain while the country ignored him in favour of glaring at his old enemy currently sitting primly on his sofa, drinking his tea.

"Sit down or I'll take all your tomatoes and go home, retard."

"Fine," Spain replied snootily and sat down, eyes never leaving England. Although, to give him credit, he did scoot to the far end of the sofa before resuming his glower.

England sat his cup down noisily on the glass table in front of him before looking up, "I don't want to be here either but I must because your best friend challenged me to it. That being said, get on and teach me your tomato language and then I can go."

Spain looked homicidal while Romano smirked and nodded in agreement. This may not be the ideal situation until England's invited guest arrived but at the very least, the Italian nation could hold the Spaniard back in the event that England succeeded in provoking Spain to a murder.

The tinkle of the doorbell rang pleasantly in the tense silence of the room and Romano got up to answer it, leaving England and Spain to their staring match.

"Oi, bastardo! You never told me you had a brother!"

Spain broke the stare and looked away, confused and surprised, "What do you mean? I don't have a bro—"

It was beautiful when the pieces slid together in Spain's head. It was like watching a pot of water boil. England got up, all smiles to hug the guest and thank him for taking the time to come. There may also be the hidden whisper of a battle plan in between ears. ("I'll take his legs. You get his eyes.")

Spain flushed up in fury, the red shooting up his neck and blooming on his cheeks. His fists tightened in incredulity and you could see this throbbing vein in his forehead that looked like it was going to burst.

"You invited him. Him." He exclaimed under his breath, breathing heavily. Everybody was looking at Spain. Portugal and England were staring in anticipation and Romano was shaking his head in irritated confusion and then…

"Fuck you and fuck your family!"

Ah, finally it begins, England thought while smiling brightly.

"Get out of my house! Out! Out!" He hollered, "I will not have him under my roof. Let me get my axe… Romano! My _axe_!"

Romano grumbled irritably, walking away to find this mysterious axe of Spain's while England and Portugal stood shoulder to shoulder, smirks on their faces while Spain stood up and started yelling hysterically in rapid Spanish.

"Yeah," England drawled, "I think I'm ready for my lessons, Spain."

* * *

><p>"Cheri, you have to stop."<p>

France was pleading exasperatedly over the phone and England sighed. He was usually the epitome of propriety and the one time he took a few liberties to have some fun and stir up a few old playful rivalries…

"I cannot be there to chaperone you for every lesson with Spain. Maybe if you stop ganging up on him with Portugal, he would be so much more cheerful towards you," France said while England stared at his watch sullenly, "Romano told me he nearly had a heart attack, mon dieu! He got out his axe, didn't he? Didn't he? England? Engla—

England hung up the phone. It was just his luck that the Frenchman just happened to be the Spaniard's closest friends and actually concerned about one another's welfare. He knew he wasn't getting any younger but surely it couldn't be that bad to have a laugh now and again?

Portugal had left him with a salute and a march down the porch and Spain was up in his bedroom while his Italian stomped down the stairs every few minutes to fetch another tomato.

England winced as Romano threw another hateful glance his way. He was pretty sure that there would be some nasty bruises blooming on his stomach later.

"I'll be going then," He announced to the empty hall and he heard a crash upstairs before England quickly and quietly let himself out.

* * *

><p>The time for the bet has arrived and England adjusted his tie when Japan, Spain and France walked in. They were at 10 Downing Street for the simple reason that England did not want to pay for all the tea that he'd have to serve to nations that wouldn't even appreciate it anyway. Probably except for Japan, England thought pensively.<p>

"Been working hard I hope, Angleterre?"

"Bring on your conversational French. I spent a month trying to get my tongue to twist that way," England replied, smirking lightly.

"Before we start," France interjected, going back to the door, "Amerique has come to me and requested for your time directly after the bet so he'll be sitting in."

"What? He made no such appointment with me!"

France raised his eyebrows and England fell silent. To be honest, he didn't know why he was making a fuss out of it. But after the lengthy dinner with a Frenchman where topics which are Not To Be Touched On were spoken about, he's been trying to avoid the American nation.

The door opened and America stepped in, a grin on his face. England loathed admitting it, but he had a theory that every room seemed to brighten up just a tad every time the American swaggered in. It was annoying but it was pure nature to smile back at whomever who was smiling at you.

"Now, try to keep up a conversation with me for at least five minutes. I'm sure you'll agree that I'm not asking for too much?"

England nodded, agreeing to the terms, eyes never leaving America's.

* * *

><p>"Bonjour." (Good morningHello.)

"Salut." (Hello.)

"Comment vous appelez-vous?" (What is your name?)

"Je m'appelle Arthur."

England's eyes were smiling though his lips betrayed little to nothing. America felt a strange proud feeling bubbling up through his chest. The way England held himself, shoulders back and arms crossed spoke wonders about his confidence.

A hand landed on America's shoulder and he looked up. Japan had a knowing smile on his face and whispered, "I hope you know what you are doing." America hoped the same.

"Tu as un accent. Tu es Anglais?" (You've got an accent. Are you English?)

"Oui, je suis de Londres." (Yes, I'm from London.)

"Arthur, comment allez-vous?" (How are you, Arthur?)

"Très bien, merci." (Very good, thank you.)

And so it went on. France would ask the questions and England would reply in short utilitarian sentences. It was rather boring considering America had no experience with French whatsoever except for a few terms immersed in popular culture. To his knowledge, there seemed to be an argument between the two about baguettes towards the end, what with England snorting with derision every time France said the word.

France nodded and shook England's hand the moment he was done, before indicating for Spain to get his ass over here.

"It's truly beautiful to see you speak my language. It brings warmth to my heart," France said, standing from the chair.

"Let's hope the warmth won't last till winter," England replied, before looking at Spain, "Get on with it then, Spaniard."

Spain was still a little icy from their last encounter which went quite well compared to their first. Spain wouldn't allow England to take along Portugal so England had nothing else to demand but to forbid him to bring South Italy. Of course, the axe placed next to Spain's door did not escape his attention.

"Buen día." (Good day.)

"Hola." (Hello.)

"¿Cómo estás?" (How are you?)

"Muy bien." (Fine.)

"¿Qué has estado haciendo últimamente?" (What have you been up to lately?)

"Haciendo una apuesta." (Making a stupid bet)

Spain laughed, and England smiled a little.

"Esa es una apuesta estúpida. Usted nunca puede ganar con una apuesta de este tipo." (That's a stupid bet. You can never win a bet like that.)

This one ended rather shortly. Spain nodded at England when they finished, looking extremely pleased while England smiled at the Spaniard. Sometimes, America tended to forget that England had a whole other life before he came along, still had a whole other life in fact.

It was these times when England shared little inside secrets and jokes that America felt most distant from him. He didn't mind it much but it reminded him that no matter how close the two countries were, they'd never share the history that England shared with Europe.

They grew up in different times and that can never be changed. Even if they were to be in a relationship, America thought, they'd still have to give each other space. To be a nation in their own right without crowding the other and it was sure to be tricky.

"America? Are you quite all right? You look rather pale."

America's head jerked up and he nodded frantically at England who was peering at him curiously. There really was no reason to be thinking of the issues he had to work through when England hasn't even accepted his declaration yet.

"May we continue, England? Spain and I have made an arrangement for lunch," France said, tapping his watch.

"I'm taking a break," England replied and at the look on France's face, he added, "Oh it won't take awhile! The last test barely lasts for five minutes, it's enough time for the two of you to saunter to whatever place to stuff your mouths. Besides, I have to speak with America."

France conceded but not before flicking his eyes towards America who inclined his head just that bit. "Very well, then."

"Yes?" America asked, recapturing the Briton's attention.

"Let's take this outside."

* * *

><p>"I'm afraid I was wondering as to why you are here," England said.<p>

"I didn't think I needed to have a reason to spend some time with you," America replied, eyes carefully regarding England. England felt like he was being watched, like his reaction was going to be measured and analysed. He didn't like it.

England reached slowly into his jacket pocket. He'd taken to carrying around America's gift and as to why, England had no answer. The flash of recognition sparked in America's eyes the moment England held the item in his hands.

"Thank you for the gift, America. It was terribly thoughtful of you."

England continued, fingers skimming over the cover, "But what is it for?"

America wasn't ready. He wasn't ready. There was supposed to be a grand gesture planned with flowers and wine and chocolates and… things! He wasn't supposed to be cornered in some random corridor with those bottle-green eyes boring into his head and digging for answers.

"They're nothing," America blurted out, saying the first thing that came to his mind in a panic-stricken state, "We're releasing this into the market, for patriotism, y'know? I wanted to see how it would fare with you."

England's face fell.

"I'm not American and I'm not under your flag," England bit out harshly, his eyes firmly looking down.

America wasn't ready to put his heart out there yet. England might reject him… actually, he would reject him and America just haven't found a way to piece back broken smithereens of his heart. What if England mocked him? Or it could be worse. What if England pitied him and patted his back and tried to send him away like the child he still saw him as all those years ago.

"Yeah… But I'm just testing the product out. My boss said it would be a good idea. I'm thinking of giving it to the other nations to see how they fare."

All of a sudden, America's hands were jerked up and England pressed the notebook into America's fingers. England's eyes were glaring and he pushed America's hands away roughly before throwing the pen at his face. He was biting his lip so much so that he looked pained.

"Wh—"

"I'm so sick and tired of you blowing hot and cold on me!" England snarled, shoving America hard against the wall. There was a shimmer in his eyes before the Englishman turned to look away, his hands reaching up to rub at his face.

"You're not protecting me, America." There was that tone again. England said his name differently every time. This time, his voice was loud and desperate.

America didn't know what he did. He'd just implied England had taste and a moment later, his painstakingly chosen gifts were being hurled back at him.

"You are not protecting me."

France had chosen this opportune time to stalk out of the office and burst in on what was a very tense moment.

"Angleterre… I—

"I forfeit," England announced quietly, his gaze having returned to the carpeted floor. "I forfeit the bet, France. You win."

* * *

><p>"What have you done?" France's voice was low and dangerous. His usual bright blue eyes were cold and they were currently regarding America with an icy glare.<p>

"I do not want to repeat myself, Amerique. What have you done to Angleterre?"

The moment the Briton had turned past the corner, France had grabbed America and thrown him into the office. Spain and Japan were all but screamed at to get the fuck out of the room before he slammed the doors closed.

America wondered if anyone would find out about his murder.

"I don't know," America admitted, fingers holding the notebook and pen forlornly.

"Fix it," France said menacingly, a finger jabbing hard at America's chest before grabbing his jacket. "You fix it, Amerique. I did not hand the tape over just for you to wake the hell up then ruin everything. You either fix it right now or you stay the fuck away from him for the rest of your life."

America's lifespan was one long hell of a time. But there was just something in France's tone and the way he spoke. It nagged at something inside America and well, he just wasn't one to ignore his gut instinct.

"Why do you care so much?" America demanded, his brows pulling together suspiciously. "You two quarrel each and every meeting."

France let go of America's lapels.

"I have known him since he was a child," France answered, his voice suddenly unnervingly tender. "There is not another person I know better than Angleterre. He's unpleasantly direct with his opinions but when it comes to the things that really matter. His emotions, for example, he keeps them locked down within. He rarely ever lets anyone close to him, Amerique. But his heart… his heart is always open to you. Only you."

France was breathing rather hard right now before he snapped himself out of it with a shake of his head.

"He doesn't deserve to be hurt. Not twice by the same person. Not to the only one that he will always let in." This time, his words bore the sour tinge of accusation.

America understood.

(In fact, America usually understood more than he lets on.)

* * *

><p>"America," England said evenly. "I don't have time for this. Tell your men to turn around and land immediately."<p>

"Or what?"

England turned his head smoothly, green eyes carefully blank and mouth in a straight line. The sight was a trifle unnerving and America shuddered before turning to the front. For a moment, America wondered how far he would he go to coax a reaction out of the other nation.

"This is kidnap. You could have been committing political espionage," England said, "I could report you. Get me out of this plane now."

America rolled his eyes, "Would you prefer if it was a ship?"

England's lips curled back slightly before replying, "At least I can swim back to my shores or drown in the attempt."

"Jesus," America said, rubbing his arm nervously, "You're really fucked up, you know that?"

That put an end to England's creepy staring because he settled back into his seat, a satisfied smirk on his face. He hated planes, he hated the turbulence, he hated the pressure difference, he hated the altitude and he hated not being to rip open the emergency door and fly out.

If he could turn the lights off and maybe summon some harmless ghouls up here in a bit of fun then maybe this stupid flight won't be nearly as exhausting as it would be.

"You're angry," America stated simply, fiddling with a tape. He's been playing with that stupid thing since he dragged England onto the plane.

When England gave the impression that he never had planned to answer America, he continued. The butterflies that were in his stomach had just decided to bombard his heart because America was half sure that he was on the verge of having a stroke.

"Hey England," America said, voice suddenly soft.

He tugged a lock of choppy blonde hair behind England's ear before leaning in to whisper something close. Where only England and himself would ever know the exact words, of what he said.

And America kissed him.

It wasn't technically in the plan. America just wanted to say it and hope dearly that England wouldn't say something cruel or just punch him in the stomach.

But it felt like the right thing to do. Like he was being drawn to do it and so he did.

England's lips were soft and pliable and he tasted like tea. There weren't any earth-quaking jolts or fireworks filled with colour, instead, there was just a quiet feeling of belonging lingering beneath his tongue.

There were tiny little sparks of joy and wonder, igniting tiny bouts of breathlessness. It felt like America had finally found what he didn't even know he was looking for.

Slowly, America had to pull away for breath and he wanted to chance a look at England's response.

There was a wide blush spreading through his cheeks and his lips were always in a bright smile. His green eyes were looking in America like he could barely believe it. England wrapped his arms over America and pulled him closer. America suddenly realised England was shaking and it had actually taken a moment for him to realise it was because England was _laughing_.

America buried his face in the Briton's hair and tried to pull him closer. England was warm beneath him and it was worth it. It was worth it. America didn't know why he had ever thought it wasn't. Having England laughing and happy in his arms was worth anything in the world, least of all putting his heart out there.

England's heart was pumping rather dangerously at the moment but he didn't care a whit. There was pleasantly nothing in his head but white noise and happiness threatened to overtake him in crushing waves. He had almost forgotten how it feels to be so happy, England thought disbelievingly.

It was embarrassing how easily America could win him over. And here he was being gripped close and hugged to within an inch of his life. But England guessed it couldn't actually be counted considering he was just reclaiming what was his.

What had always been his from the very start.

* * *

><p>America bit his lip to stop his ever-widening grin.<p>

England tried determinedly not to meet America's gaze over the table, choosing instead to scribble furiously in the notebook that America had (re)given him. It was like a game, nowadays, seeing who cracked and gave up first. Least to say, America won most of the time.

America stared harder, absolutely convinced in the fact that the harder he looked, the more disturbed England would be. It was a theory that was still much disputed upon. But the strain in his eyes all came to fruition the moment England looked up and glared back at him.

America looked at the nation with whom he shared an exceedingly special relationship with. England's eyes were flashing and he looked as if he wanted to storm over and hiss at America to pay attention.

This could go on for hours really. America just smiled back, propping his head up with his hand.

End.

* * *

><p><strong>I would like to say that I don't speak French or Spanish and I did do research on that. But there might be mistakes so let me know if they're actually saying something quite ridiculous. Well, it was a bet on language so I thought it would be not very good if there weren't a bit of foreign language. I couldn't write the Japanese part because I haven't the faintest clue about the language. I know Chinese, but I don't think it's the same thing.<strong>

**And yes, France is my love-hate enabler.**

**EDIT: An extremely kind reviewer has told me that some of my French was wrong and so I corrected the wrong ones and I just took out the ones that aren't suitable. If you spot any more mistakes, don't hesitate to let me know! (13/02/12)  
><strong>


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